Arena
by Emily Waters
Summary: The war was lost. Those who survived were made into gladiators, forced to fight each other for Voldemort's amusement. At the end, there can only be one. Angst, Character Death, Torture.
1. Arena

They could not die.

Not here.

That was the problem.

Their wands were gone, their magic was bound, and the surveillance spells prevented suicide or murder.

It's not that Voldemort minded when they killed each other. Not at all. He just wanted it to happen in front of him. That's why they couldn't die outside of the Arena.

The war was lost, years ago. The Muggle world had been destroyed, utterly and completely. The wizard world was the only thing remaining – but it had been transformed into a terrifying playground of Voldemort's making. And all of those who had fought in the last war, were turned into Voldemort's playthings. Even him. Even though he didn't fight all that much. More like, defected from Voldemort in fear – only to become one of his puppets.

He called them Gladiators. Voldemort certainly had an appreciation of Muggle history. Must come with being a half-blood, Draco thought darkly. His entire body ached. His thoughts were disordered and confused. There was blood on his hands – and for a few minutes, he couldn't remember whose. Oh yes, Ron Weasley's. He had killed Ron Weasley earlier today in the Arena, while Voldemort and his henchmen watched and applauded.

If someone had told him five years ago that one day he would kill Ron Weasley, he would have laughed for joy. Today, he wished he had died instead.

He did not remember how Voldemort had convinced them to start fighting. It was no potion, no Imperius. Just... pure persuasion. He had tortured a little boy in front of them first time they had declined. What was his name? Teddy or something? Some ridiculous Muggle name. Then there were others. The second time they declined, it was worse. And eventually they fought. They all did. Every single one of them. Even Ginny Weasley. Even Hermione Granger. Even Luna Lovegood.

They tried fighting against Voldemort, of course – and found, to their utter astonishment, that swords and spears did not do much to penetrate the shield of magical energy surrounding the Arena. And now... Draco wondered if any of them even remembered why they were fighting. Maybe not. Maybe it was just instinct now. Maybe the reasons no longer mattered.

Draco buried his face in his bloodied hands and groaned quietly. Why couldn't he die? He had been trying to die – for so long. He wasn't even that good of a fighter. He was average, really. The others were good... good enough to kill him, if they wanted to. But instead, they, the others, always tricked him. Always found a way to die. To let him kill them. He hated them for that.

He heard unsteady footsteps behind him. A naked body slumped on the ground next to him. He looked at the young man whom he hadn't seen in few days. His muscular lean body was covered in scars and bruises. His mattered hair had blood in it. There was blood on his hands, too. The dark green eyes had a dangerous glow in them.

"Who did you kill today?" Draco asked quietly.

"Lovegood," Harry said.

Draco almost choked at the words. He never liked Luna much – but ... the thought of Harry killing her was for some reason utterly unbearable. Even though Harry had killed most of the others. More than anyone else.

"I am sorry," Draco offered uncertainly.

"Don't be. It's good. It was quick. She wanted to die."

Of course she did, Draco thought bitterly. Who wouldn't?

Harry's breathing grew even and calm, as he lay on his back and stared upwards vacantly.

"Who else is left?" Draco asked tiredly.

"No-one," Harry said calmly. "We are the last ones. And after tomorrow... there will only be one."

Right, Draco thought bitterly. Just one lucky winner, to spend the rest of his life, at Voldemort's mercy. Doing his bidding. Under Imperius, or by pure persuasion. Who knows? Draco glanced at Harry – his face was absolutely impassive.

"How do you feel?" Draco asked quietly.

"Fine," Harry said absently.

Draco lifted himself off the ground and straddled Harry's body, looking down at him. Harry stared up, green eyes absolutely cold. And then, to Draco's utter shock, strong hands embraced him and drew him close, and a kiss – an absolutely passionate kiss happened of its own accord.

Draco's hands caressed the firm, sculpted body underneath him, trailing every scar and every injury. Harry's eyes were now shut and a look of absolute pleasure crossed his face. On an impulse, Draco reached to his hips and lifted them, finding his opening, thrusting his fingers into it. Harry did not make a sound – his breathing only grew louder and heavier. Without much deliberation, Draco bent Harry's legs in the knees and thrust into him. Harry's entire body shuddered at the pain of the ungentle penetration, but he did nothing to stop him, or push him off. Draco continued moving inside him, his hands caressing the tired weary face of his nemesis, as if trying to erase the signs of pain he was causing with every thrust. He climaxed abruptly, and to his shock, he saw that Harry had too, without even being touched. Draco pulled out of him and leaned over him again. To his own surprise, Draco realized that he was crying, his tears dropping right onto Harry's face. Harry looked up and and smiled at him. His smile was gentle and almost innocent – the way it used to be years ago.

"Ah, wonderful," Harry said dreamily and shifted painfully to his side. Draco looked down and saw blood on his thigh. "Just what I needed. How can I ever thank you?"

"Do you want to die?" Draco asked impulsively.

Harry laughed at the question. "Do you even need to ask?"

He supposed he didn't. Not here. "Tell me," he demanded anyways.

"Of course I do," Harry admitted freely. "So much... I did from the moment we started fighting. But – the others... they seemed to need it more. I let them go before me."

Draco looked at him in astonishment. Harry was not like him – he wasn't tricked. Day after day, for years, he did the unthinkable, the unforgivable, to save the others from fate that was far worse than death. And at the end of it all, nobody would ever thank him, and nobody would ever forgive him – because, at the end, nobody would be left.

"You can thank me," Draco said dryly. "Tomorrow, when we fight – let me win."

Harry smiled bitterly. "No," he said. "I won't."

Harry's arms wrapped around him and drew him in, making Draco settle against his chest. Draco relaxed and sobbed quietly in the embrace of the man who would kill him tomorrow.

"Before this - I would have," Harry whispered gently. "But now... I've seen it in your eyes. You want to go, more than anyone else ever did. Even more than any of the others. I can't blame you."

Harry's words brought a wave of utterly selfish relief with them, and Draco leaned into his embrace blissfully – feeling an overwhelming urge to thank him – or beg for forgiveness – or perhaps both.

"Harry," he asked weakly. "After all of this – how will you live?"

Arms held him even tighter.

"I won't," Harry said quietly. "It won't be a life. Not really. It will be something else."


	2. The Departed

Harry stood alone, in the forbidden forest, ready to summon the spirits of the departed. Not his parents, not his godfather, and not his former teachers. He could never face them again.

Just those he had killed – and those who had died before him in the Arena.

It took him five years, after he was released from the Arena, the final winner to emerge from the contests. The prize? Being able to serve Voldemort. Harry Potter did, of course.

For five years, he followed Voldemort obediently, doing his bidding, following his orders, fighting for him, submitting to every command – no matter what it was. He used to shut his eyes sometimes – eventually he stopped. It was then when he finally had Voldemort's trust. He had his own wand. He had a certain measure of freedom.

And now, it was over. It took him five years, five years of dark magic, five years of doing the unthinkable – but he finally figured it out. He devised his own spell – something that could destroy a dark wizard and all of his Hortcruxes, at once.

He never enjoyed killing – but when he cast that spell, and saw Voldemort crumble to the ground and die – he felt... not enjoyment, exactly, but a definite satisfaction. For a few minutes, he stood over the pile of ashes that used to be the Dark Lord with an unapologetic smile on his face.

Those around him applauded and cheered. Then they bowed to him. Harry looked around – saw the people around falling on their knees before him. He could not understand why at first. They used to support Voldemort – faithfully and enthusiastically. So why were they bowing to Harry now? And then he understood. They misread his smile. They feared him. He was the new Dark Lord now. He shrugged tiredly and walked away from it all. From the small fires that continued burning, year after year, from the terrified subjects who were kneeling in supplication, from the smell of death, and from the ashes that still clung to everyone's faces and clothes.

It took him only a week to find the Resurrection Stone in the forest. And now that he held it in his hand, he hesitated. Should he?

He did not want to see their faces again. Not ever. He did not deserve to – not after what he had done. He never cried for any of them, for the same reason – he did not deserve to. You can cry when you kill someone by accident – or even on purpose – and then feel remorse. But not like this. Not while the Dark Lord watched and clapped. And Harry had no remorse – just regret.

He did not want to raise them up – but then he turned the stone anyways. Because he decided he had to. And the rustling of the leaves, and the gushes of wind, and the slow movements all around him indicated that the departed were returning, and surrounding him.

"Harry Potter," he heard a voice behind him. He spun around and saw Dean. Dean was the first one he had ever killed. "What can the dead do for you today?"

"I killed him," Harry said quietly.

"Just as we knew you would," Ginny confirmed softly, stepping towards him. "Only you could. That's why it had to be you – to emerge from the Arena. We all knew that."

Harry looked at her painfully, not being able to get enough of her face. He hadn't wanted to see her again, but now that he did – now that she was right in front of him – just the way she used to be – he wanted to embrace her and hold her, for all eternity and longer.

"Harry," Ron asked behind him. "Why did you raise us?"

Harry did not know how to answer that.

"That's quite obvious, don't you think?" Neville spoke quietly from the crowd. "He wants us to choose for him."

And then Harry realized that that was true. He did not know what to do next. Should he die, or live? He deserved neither. He did not deserve to live – not even in order to somehow try and salvage the remnants of the world he once used to know. Not after what he had done. But he did not deserve death either – that was too good for someone like him – to be able to go in, and be reunited with those who loved him once.

He did not even deserve to decide. Those he had killed should decide for him. They had the right.

"Where do you want me?" Harry demanded. "Tell me. Out here – or back there, with you?"

He heard a soft and melodic laughter next to him. He turned his head to see Luna, standing right next to him. She wore a simple linen dress, and she was barefoot – her toes shifting and passing through the withered grass.

"The real question, Harry, is where do _you_ want _us_?" she asked gently. "You need to think about that for a bit."

Harry just stared at her in wonder. "Luna," he whispered hoarsely, not daring to touch her. "I don't understand..."

He heard a deep sigh behind him, and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He could barely feel the touch, but the presence of it resonated throughout his entire body. Harry turned around to come face to face with Draco.

"Of course you don't understand," Draco said without accusation. "You never do, when it comes to things like this."

"We don't mind being dead, you know," Hermione's voice said reasonably from the crowd. "If that's what you want. To a well-organized mind, death is just the next great adventure."

Harry nodded slowly. "Dumbledore used to say that," he whispered.

"He still does," Hermione informed him. "Almost every day."

Harry wanted to push the crowd apart and find her – the owner of that cool, rational voice and see her. But Draco's hands were on both his shoulders, and they were not letting him go.

"How do you want us, Harry?" Ginny asked him gently. "Dead or alive? Where should we be? Should we be a thing of the past, a lost memory – or should we be loving, and building, and living?"

"Living!" Harry shouted furiously. Did they even need to ask?

"Then you should bring us back," Draco said gently. His pale hand, light, and almost intangible, like an autumn breeze, caressed Harry's hair. "You should make us live again."

"I can't raise the dead, you know," Harry said bitterly. "There are no spells for that."

"Ah," Draco mused dreamily. "Don't you worry about that. That's all taken care of. - we've figured it out for you. You can bring us back, if you want to. All of us."

Draco's impalpable hand continued to soothe and torment, and make impossible promises.

Harry stared at him with his eyes wide open, wanting to believe.

"I can?" He whispered faintly. "But how?"

"Live," Draco told him. "And then, we will too. We are a part of you."

** the end **


End file.
